


Imping

by harpydora



Category: The Room Where It Happened (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, fraught haircare, fraught preening, missing scene sort of, spoilers for ep 36 and 37
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 16:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpydora/pseuds/harpydora
Summary: One of Tseer's hands holds his head steady. The other holds a straight razor. In the world of fifteen minutes (six months) ago, Wyatt's throat would be slit.





	Imping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redtailedhawk90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtailedhawk90/gifts).



> When Shannon mentioned "preening," instead of going anywhere particularly naughty (for once), this is where my brain went. Technically this is a mild canon divergence but shrug emoji.
> 
> Thank you redtailedhawk90 for your generous support and quick once-over and just for being awesome!

His apartment looks like nothing has changed, and in some ways that feels like a betrayal. They'd been gone fifteen minutes, give or take six months, and his apartment looks at once so familiar and so alien. The fact that it's just the way he left it makes months prior seem almost dreamlike in comparison.

But it wasn't a dream. One of Tseer's hands holds his head steady. The other holds a straight razor. In the world of fifteen minutes (six months) ago, Wyatt's throat would be slit and Tseer would be free.

"Don't move," Tseer says in a hushed sort of tone. Like he's afraid of disturbing the moment. Maybe everything feels dreamlike and tenuous to him, too. 

Wyatt does as Tseer bids, holding his breath without realizing it until he feels the familiar scrape of the blade against his scalp. Like everything now, it's at once familiar and different; this is a ritual he's done more times than he can count. Just a simple routine to maintain his image. But he's always been the one with his fingers wrapped around the handle. 

The pair remains in silence while Tseer works. He takes great care as he works and Wyatt watches him in the mirror through half-lidded eyes. Once he wipes off the razor for the last time, Tseer clears his throat. "What about the top?" he asks.

Wyatt runs his hands over the freshly shaved sides of his head and lets out a relieved sigh. "I'll deal with it later. This is enough." He turns to face Tseer rather than looking at him in the mirror. His—friend? Partner?—had been looking rough for some time, but being against the immaculate backdrop of Wyatt's bathroom only emphasizes the sorry state Tseer is in.

"Did you want me to…?" Wyatt trails off in favor of gesturing in Tseer's general direction. He's not sure exactly what service he's offering, but he's sure there's  _ something _ he can do to improve Tseer's condition.

(Six months—fifteen minutes—ago, he would have rationalized the impulse as simple reciprocity. As a way to settle debts or perhaps inflict some sort of debt of his own, given the magnitude of maintenance Tseer obviously needs. But that isn't who he is—who  _ they _ are—anymore.)

Tseer bristles, his bedraggled feathers tightening against his body as his shoulders stiffen and his eyes narrow. "I'm fine," he says in a clipped tone.

Of course he would be obstinate. Wyatt's not sure why he expected a different response. He can't keep himself from chuckling at his own foolishness. 

Tseer's expression changes to something that Wyatt has learned indicates a cross between petulance and indignation. "What're you laughing at?" he demands.

Wyatt tries to stifle his laughter (really, it's unfair to be making light of this situation), but it's a losing battle. Tseer glares up at him. Finally, he manages, "Myself. I should've known better than to think you'd let me help you that easily."

"I don't need your help," Tseer says, his tone edging perilously close to the one he used to use when he was intent on killing Wyatt.

Wyatt holds up his hands in a relenting gesture. "I'm not saying you need anything. I'm just offering to make things easier. Like you did for me."

They may not have been the exact right words, but they're close enough that Wyatt can see Tseer considering him. Perhaps it's the way they've come to know each other, or perhaps it's the fact that they're both clearly exhausted from their exploits, or perhaps it really is the earnestness of Wyatt's words. Whatever the motivation, Wyatt sees Tseer's shoulders slump a little.

"Do you even know what you'd be doing?" Tseer asks. His words are still a little defiant, but the heat is gone.

"No," Wyatt admits after a moment's consideration. There hadn't been much time for either of them to groom themselves properly in the wilds, so he has only the most vague idea of how helping Tseer might work.

Tseer rolls his eyes; his feathers are still pulled tight to him, but the rest of his posture has loosened just a little. "Fine. I'll show you what to do." He holds out a hand to beckon Wyatt closer, and Wyatt steps forward to take it.

"Okay," Tseer says, his voice suddenly gone soft and unsure. "You see these feathers here?" He gestures with his head towards a patch of particularly sorry-looking plumage. When Wyatt nods, Tseer guides his hand to one of the feathers. "Start at the bottom and just kind of… smooth it out." He demonstrates using Wyatt's fingers, leading them through the motions of fixing the barbs on the feather he selected.

It seems simple enough, if a bit tedious. Especially given how many feathers Tseer has and how terrible they all look. "I think I've got it," Wyatt says.

Tseer withdraws his hand, but he keeps a careful eye on Wyatt as he works. It's not the sort of watchfulness that accompanies a lack of trust; rather, it's like an instructor watching a pupil.

Mindful of this, Wyatt takes his time. At first it's for Tseer's benefit, but then it's for his own. For all that the feathers look ragged, it's impossible not to marvel at the way they become smooth between his fingers, at how the texture becomes almost silken once he's done.

After some time (and really, what does time mean right this moment?), Wyatt looks up from his work to see Tseer's eyes have drifted almost entirely shut. Tseer's shoulders are loose, and a realization hits Wyatt like a punch to the gut: this is what Tseer looks like when he's relaxed.

Wyatt's fingers still, and Tseer's eyes snap open now that he's stopped. The stiffness starts to return to Tseer's posture. "What's wrong?"

Rather than admit to the true reason behind pausing his work, Wyatt scrambles for some other excuse. "Oh. Well. I wasn't sure what to do about… about the broken feathers." Certainly not a lie since he barely knows what to do about the  _ healthy _ feathers, even if it's not the answer he knows he should be giving.

Tseer's shoulders relax again. "That's a little harder. You've got to use parts of healthy feathers to kind of… fix them?" He sighs. "But we don't have anything here we can use."

Wyatt makes a thoughtful sound. "Transmutation isn't my thing, but maybe I could try…" He grabs the straight razor from where it rests near the sink and concentrates. He's got a fair idea of what a feather is meant to look like now, what it should feel like, what a healthy feather is meant to be.

After a moment, the razor ceases being a razor and starts being a handful of dully metallic feathers in varying sizes. He glances at Tseer. "Will these do?"

Tseer takes the feathers from him and turns them over a few times in his hands. "Seems a little flashy, but yeah. They'll do for now. Here, I'll show you what to do." He locates one of his broken feathers, takes a moment to eye it, and then breaks one of the new feathers in half. "Okay, it works like this."

He works slowly so Wyatt can follow, taking painstaking care to graft the new feather part onto the broken feather. "There. See?"

Wyatt looks over the less-sad-but-still-sorry state of Tseer's plumage and grimaces. "We're going to need more feathers."


End file.
